


Holiday Cheer

by hackerhostel (watchmefuckthisplace)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Fluff, Holiday Season, M/M, Terrible Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchmefuckthisplace/pseuds/hackerhostel
Summary: “Really? That’s what you’re wearing?” Erlich scoffs, looking Richard up and down. He’s far more disappointed than he needs to be, given the circumstances.“What?” Richard, scowling, glances down at himself before meeting Erlich’s disapproval again. “It’s an ugly sweater.”---Richard and Erlich spend their first holiday season together as a couple. Of course, nothing goes smoothly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SexuallyMonsterous (Alli_Bialystock)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alli_Bialystock/gifts).



> For SexuallyMonstrous, written for the Silicon Valley HBO 2016-2017 Winter Exchange. Shout out to BachmanityCapital/Bitterowl for helping me out with Erlich. This takes place in the same AU as _Safeway_ does, where PG is still alive and funding Pied Piper.

“Really? _That’s_ what you’re wearing?” Erlich scoffs, looking Richard up and down. He’s far more disappointed than he needs to be, given the circumstances.

“What?” Richard, scowling, glances down at himself before meeting Erlich’s disapproval again. “It’s an ugly sweater.”

It’s a stiff, tight knit navy with reds, greens, and whites woven into the pattern. Too big in the sleeves, too tight around the hips. The unsightly thing is littered with various coins, rupees, space invaders, snowflakes, Christmas trees, a dubious looking Yoshi, and shapeless blobs most likely meant to resemble the ghosts from Pac-Man. At the center of the chaotic pattern, unevenly woven in, was a big, white ‘LEVEL UP!’

His mother had gotten it for him, without a shred of irony, the Christmas right before he dropped out of college. It is, from Richard’s perspective, _quite ugly_ . The pattern isn’t even thematically cohesive -- a weird amalgam of malformed classic arcade and Nintendo characters. Without any doubt, it’s the _stupidest_ thing he owns. Which is saying something.

“No, It’s a _tacky_ sweater, Richard. It’s _charming._ You could have tried a _little harder.”_

Granted, he can admit it’s nothing compared to the nauseating, sensory-overload of a nightmare Erlich had devised for the party. It’s as if Christmas-kitsch has taken on a sentient form, just for the sake of harassing him.

“Tacky, ugly, whatever, it’s a Christmas sweater, can we just go?”

“Need I remind you that there’s a prize involved?”

“So what?”

“So what?” This is _Peter Fucking Gregory_ !” Erlich stands there, incredulous, his monstrosity of a costume glinting and blinking with condescension. Richard has to look away. “In case you’ve forgotten, he happens to be a _billionaire_ . It’s probably something _incredible.”_

It’s a tough logic to argue with, so Richard says nothing and gnaws at his lip.

“Yeah, okay. I guess.”

“You guess?” Erlich advances on him, all bulk and clamour, sleeves jingling with aggression. In a sudden disorienting whirl of light and color, Erlich’s gotten Richard’s sweater pulled half off of him.

“Hey!” Richard snaps, struggling out of the last grasp of a sleeve. Once Erlich’s finished hassling him, he pulls his arms tight across his chest, defensive, exposed, and indignant. “What is this?”

“We’ve got about a twenty minute window before we’re late -- I’m making some adjustments.”

Erlich dashes to the other side of the room, and frantically rifles through Gilfoyle’s cluttered work station, gathering an assortment of tools. He dumps one of Gilfoyle’s scrap boxes onto the floor, sifting through it.

“Can you _not_.” Richard lets out his most exasperated sigh yet.

Erlich holds up a finger, balancing a precarious pile of junk in his arms, then disappears into the rec room.

What feels like half an hour passes by. The clock tells Richard it’s only been five minutes.

Tired of waiting, Richard slinks off to swipe a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black from the bar. He pours himself a shot’s worth -- most of it dribbles down his front as he throws it back and he coughs up the rest. So much for trying to calm his nerves. He tries again, filling the chipped lowball up by nearly half, managing to down it in two sips this time.

Richard doesn’t like the taste, not exactly, but he tastes it on Erlich enough to find it soothing.

 _This party will be okay. This party will be fine. This party will be nice…_ Maybe if he repeats it to himself enough he’ll start to believe it. It wasn’t _that_ big of a deal. Not like they hadn’t royally embarrassed themselves at the last Peter Gregory Party. How bad could this go?

A crash explodes from the other room, with Erlich uttering a few choice expletives through the clatter.

Richard is suddenly filled back up to the brim with doubt -- he fills his glass another inch.

He can’t remember a single Christmas that didn’t go some kind of horrible. Not that it was _technically_ Christmas. But close enough. And with Erlich in the mix?

He checks the clock again. They’re already pushing five minutes behind schedule. His stomach churns. Monica had _explicitly_ told them not to be late … and to look ‘presentable’.

Finally, Erlich emerges, holding up the now altered excuse for a sweater.

“This will have to do,” Erlich says, disappointed, like it’s not obnoxious enough as it is.

The thing is covered in blinking blue and white LEDs to match Erlich’s blinding embarrassment, along with glittery snowflake ornaments haphazardly glued around it. Richard supposes, if ugliness is the measure of success, it’s certainly an improvement. But it only serves to make Richard want to wear the damn thing even _less_.

At least he won’t be nearly as hideous as Erlich, who’s standing there like some garish holiday behemoth in a patchwork atrocity of a vest -- decked out in all manner of ornaments and lights and beaded garland -- which is pulled overtop _another_ somehow equally horrid sweater, complete with bells trimming the sleeves. Richard could never be less attracted to him in his life.

Monica’s emphatic _‘presentable’_ flitters through his mind again as he pulls on his own sweater with a deep, resigned sigh. The sharp plastic edge of a snowflake cuts into his shoulder and he yelps. Richard is still dubious about this whole thing.

“Erlich, are you _sure --_ ”

“Yes, Richard!” Erlich cuts him off before he can repeat himself for the nth time, “This is a Peter Gregory party we’re talking about. Now let’s get going or we’re going to to be late.”

 

* * *

 

The long, winding drive into San Jose was extended by virtue of hitting every red light along the way. Not to mention the bit where Richard had convinced Erlich to double back, only to realize they _hadn’t_ actually missed the street they were looking for.

Between all the bickering about directions and _being late_ , Erlich had been running jokes over and over with Richard, trying to rope him into deciding which of them would be most Peter Gregory Approved. Richard wants none of it, of course, but makes vague half-noises at some of Erlich’s jokes.

Begrudgingly, the last one makes him laugh.

“ _That’s_ the winner.” Erlich flashes a grin at Richard as they pull up to the valet.

Richard makes note of the time before climbing out of the car: 7:32 pm. They are, in fact, _inarguably_ late.

Stepping out onto the walkway, Richard smooths out the impossible wrinkles in his clothes, the good it’ll do. Then, finally, he gets a good look at the towering building in front of them. Grand, imposing Greco-Roman architecture, with huge stately columns looming over the entrance -- all cast in faint yellow spotlights, glowing ominously against the settling dusk.

It feels out of place among all the modern buildings along the street. Richard hadn’t really known what he was expecting. He supposes, dimly, this isn’t far off the mark.

The valet is staring at them, trying to remain straight-faced, but there’s an edge of amusement cracking through her expression as she fumbles to get their ticket.

Erlich smirks over at Richard, glad the hideous holiday barf-fest he’s wearing is having an effect. A crawling unease trickles through his limbs. He hugs himself tight. The much-anticipated humiliation is already warming up.

Ticket in hand, the two of them find their way up the shallow stone steps and through the artfully carved entryway, into the expansive foyer. Tall granite columns and evergreen shrubs are patterned about, decked with twinkle lights. Soft, orchestral music is echoing throughout the halls, accompanied with the near-deafening squeak of Richard’s sneakers against the speckled marble floor. He can’t help but cringe at himself, self-consciousness now in full swing.

A handsome server with an empty tray slips past them, only offering a startled look before disappearing through a pair of heavily draped red velvet curtains, with _‘Lounge’_ scrawled overhead in peeling gold script.

No one else is wandering around the halls -- it’s clear they’re the last ones to arrive. Richard is not keen on this strange, oppressive emptiness. He’s sure the lobby intends on swallowing him whole.

Erlich, catching onto Richard’s nervous energy, wraps a heavy arm around his shoulders, and steers him through another set of velvet curtains, into the crowded ballroom.

It’s much warmer in there.

Richard is fairly certain that time has begun to slow down with the swell of the music and the soft murmur of voices, and his brain can’t seem to piece together the scene. His eyes have gone unfocused, cloudy in the dim lighting, and suddenly reality seems like a distant whisper to him.

Erlich drops his arm from Richard’s shoulders.

Richard makes a weak attempt to ground himself. He’s staring up at the high coffered ceiling, a rich dark wood laced with gold embellishments. Intricate wrought-iron lamps hang low from the heavy beams across the ceiling, lending everything an unusual sort of gravity. It reminds Richard, distantly, of church. It feels just as oppressive and unreal.

He’s lost in the patterns his mind is desperately trying to make sense of.

A long moment passes before he’s able to bring his gaze back down and take in the rest of the gently bustling ballroom. The faint red glow from the lamps on the walls mingles together with the soft yellow glow from the lamps hanging above, bathing everything with a flushed atmosphere.

Richard is very aware of how much he’s starting to sweat.

At one end of the massive room, near a lofty, ornate balcony, is a towering tree, decorated only with white lights, gold ribbons, and frosted pinecones. At the other end is a stage, where a small orchestra, _an actual, real orchestra_ , is playing _Carol of the Bells._

Milling about in quiet conversation around the lavishly decorated banquet tables are a hundred-or-so-odd guests dressed in sleek, sharp blacks and reds. Nearly all the women are glinting with gold and diamonds.

The sinking realization is a sucker punch to the gut -- this is a _formal_ party. Richard might even go so far as to call it _fancy_. They’re the only two people here not wearing something exceedingly expensive, and most certainly the only two people here wearing the most laughably hideous sweaters imaginable.

The all too familiar acid-burn snakes up into Richard’s throat while his stomach does a very impressive kind of contortion.

Richard grips at Erlich’s sleeve, and says, “Erlich, what did you do?”

“I … I didn’t … the invitation … “

“ERLICH!” Richard snaps, spinning around on him. “Is this a fucking joke? Cause it’s not fucking funny!”

“No! It’s … I thought--”

“There you are! What are you _doing?_ ” A voice hisses.

It’s Monica. Richard almost doesn’t recognize her.

She’s wearing a dark red high-neck dress -- the way the fabric is draping across her form is beyond flattering -- and her hair is elaborately twisted into an updo, complete with a holly-shaped, diamond-set pin. She’s stunning, and Richard’s taken aback for a moment, just staring, mesmerized. Sometimes Richard forgets she exists outside of work.

Then, Richard realizes, she’s also _incredibly_ pissed off. She’s taller than him in her heels and it’s more than a little imposing. He takes a step back, and grabs weakly at Erich’s hand.

“I … sorry for we’re late?” Is all that comes out of Richard’s mouth. Erlich stays silent.

“Yeah, you _are_ late _._ You missed Peter’s big speech, he was asking where you were, you weren’t answering any of my texts -- and _what the FUCK are you two wearing?”_ Monica is livid.

“Hah, nice to see you too, _you look incredible,_ ” Erlich spits out, arms crossed. The defensive stance is nothing but comical, adorned with blinking lights and assorted super-glued ornaments.

Richard’s organs threaten to ooze out onto the floor. Trying to ignore the feeling, he fishes out the phone from his pocket. One missed call and three missed texts are lit up on his screen. Unfortunately, busying his hands isn’t doing much to help.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Monica asks, still furious. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she herds them out of the ballroom. “Jesus, at least get to where people can’t see you.”

Richard isn’t sure what excuse he can offer Monica, other than: “Well, apparently, this is what passes for a joke to Erlich!”

“ _It was a mistake!”_ Erlich hisses, gesturing impotently, hands balled into fists. “I _wanted_ to impress Peter Gregory, but--”

The thing that’s been tightly wound inside of Richard finally snaps.

“Ohhh, yes of course, you’re _sooo_ impressive,” Richard mocks, childish, arms thrown up. “Like Peter Gregory is going to take you seriously in _that!_ You just _have to make a scene, right?_ Can’t let anyone outshine _Erlich Bachman!_ You have some kind of desperate need to sabotage everything, don’t you, ‘cause _you can’t stand_ when people--”

“Guys, can we calm down?” Monica cuts him off, making a move to step in between them -- but steps back when one of Richard’s flailing arms almost knocks her in the head.

“Why the fuck would I want to sabotage one of the most important nights of my entire fucking life? Do you even _know_ who’s here? I swear to God I saw Bill Gates sucking down mini quiche by the buffet--”

“What? No, Bill Gates isn’t here,” Monic huffs and gestures dismissively. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. You two need to chill out, and decide what--”

“Everything is all about being the fucking _center of attention_ with you!” The volume of Richard’s voice escalates with every word he spits out. The room is _spinning._

“Richard, you aren’t _listening_ to me!” Erlich shouts with a kind of panicked desperation, and for a split second, Richard almost feels guilty. “Something got fucked up, either an invitation, or--”

“Yeah, okay, so you admit that you fucked up!” Almost. Not enough to stop shouting. Anger and resentment burn hot and defiant in his chest.

“GUYS!” Monica snaps, cringing at the sound of her own words echoing through the austere lobby.

“WHAT?” Erlich and Richard shout in unison, both of them spinning around to face her.

Monica lowers her voice again and says: “How about this? How about you two go back to your car, drive home, go put on something more presentable, and hopefully make it back here before the party’s over. Does that sound good?”

“Did you seriously think I hadn’t considered that before?” Erlich asks testily, “I can’t leave now. If I leave now, I’ll look like a _massive_ tool.”

“Yeah, Monica, condescending much?” Richard lifts his chin and folds his arms across his chest, a mirror of Erlich.

Monica stops, mouth hanging open, brows furrowed. She looks lost for a long moment, and then, she shouts: “Fine! Do what you want! I’m done trying to help!”

Turning on her heel, she tears through the heavy velvet curtains at the ballroom’s entrance, disappearing.

“Honestly, did she really think we were going to just leave?” Erlich sneers. “How she’s gotten so far in this industry I have no idea.”

Now abandoned by the only grace he thought could salvage this evening, Richard feels the fire ignite again. He turns on Erlich. “Don’t you _dare_ act like this is her fault!”

Erlich glances around like he’s searching for something, then just settles on rolling his eyes. “Oh my god, seriously?”

“Yes! Seriously! This--” Richard’s back to shouting, reaching out to grab a malformed felted Santa from Erlich’s vest, which tears away with little resistance. Richard’s infuriated -- If Erlich was going to put the effort into embarrassing him, he might as well put the craftsmanship into it.  “ _This is all you, Erlich!_ ”

He hurls the damned thing at Erlich, who flings up his arms, though it doesn’t have much effect. It weakly smacks him in the jaw before drifting down to the floor, its shiny black button eyes staring up at Richard, unsettling. There’s no satisfaction in the gesture and it makes Richard’s blood boil.

Erlich slaps at Richard’s hand as he lunges forward again, aiming for the candy cane that’s sticking out of Erlich’s vest pocket -- that one should offer a nice _smack_. The god-awful bell-fringe jingles as Erlich scrambles away from him, out of reach.

“Richard, get a hold of yourself!”

“I don’t know why--” Richard, undeterred, turns his increasingly destructive urges toward his own sweater. He rips off one of the stupid snowflakes and flings it as hard as he can at Erlich. “I expected this Christmas to go--” He rips off another, “--any differently--” … and another … “--than any other fucking Christmas!” … and another … “In the history!” … and another … “Of Christmases!”

By the time Richard stops yelling, the floor is glittering with half a dozen cheap plastic snowflakes. His chest is heaving, rage still crackling up his spine.

“It isn’t even Christmas!” Erlich shouts back, hands scrambling at the air. “And don’t you dare lecture me on _shitty Christmases!_ I’m the motherfucking _king_ of shitty Christmases. If there were an island of shitty Christmases, they would _beg me_ to be their fucking leader, because of all the shitty Christmases I’ve been through. I would be a _fucking hero_ to those people!”

Richard makes a show of rolling his eyes and nods impatiently, letting Erlich finish with his tirade. “Wow. _King,_ huh? Is that what you just said? Are you _for real?_ ”

Elrich heaves a sigh. “I’m just saying that you aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up by this time of year!”

“Stop deflecting!” Richard snaps, loudly, and the sound carries, bouncing off the granite walls.

Just then, one of the guests wanders out into the lobby, only to stare at them a long moment before turning right back around into the safety of the ballroom. Richard’s face is burning and he’s so _tired_ now and he wishes everything around him would just dissolve. He wants to lay down on the cool marble floor and vanish into nothingness, forever.

Erlich looks just as embarrassed as Richard feels and there’s a sting of solidarity in that.  Erlich’s gaze darts around as if he’s looking for some escape. His eyes fall on a nearby stairwell, and before Richard realizes what’s happening, a big hand grabs the back of his sweater and yanks him, stumbling, toward it.

“Hey!” Richard protests, wobbling onto the landing once Erlich let’s him go. “What the hell?”

“You were making a scene,” Erlich grits out through his teeth.

“ _I_ was making a scene?” Richard, hands on hips, leans forward to get in Erlich’s face. It’s a challenge, given how Erlich towers over him. “If anybody is making a scene, it’s you! Did you want to ruin Christmas -- and hell, probably my entire fucking career -- or did you actually think this was a good idea?”

Erlich looks two seconds away from either tearing out his own hair or dragging Richard up a flight of stairs just so he can toss him back down it. Some shattered piece of his infuriated, _exhausted_ brain kinda hopes he does.

“Jesus Christ, Richard, stop being so fucking unreasonable!”

A wordless scream bubbles in the back of Richard’s throat, threatening to erupt. Somehow, he bites it back.

“The only unreasonable thing going on right now are these stupid--” Richard shoves weakly at Erlich’s chest -- “fucking--” he shoves a little harder -- “sweaters!”

With one final, forceful shove, the shrill, synthetic squeal of _Jingle Bells_ pierces the air, reverberating through the stairwell. Richard is stunned, at first, then realizes Erlich’s abominable vest is what’s screeching at him -- accompanied by felt-Rudolph’s lightbulb nose flashing an erratic, neon red.  

Erlich, without missing another beat, slaps a hand against his chest, and the earsplitting noise ceases.

The sheer absurdity of the situation dawns on Richard then, in the empty silence.

A sound that’s somewhere between a quiet laugh and a shaky sob gurgles out of him. Richard is milliseconds from careening straight into hysterics … but then, Erlich’s hand finds Richard’s, tugging him down onto the stairs.

A long moment passes as they sit there, silent, Richard’s hand enveloped in Erlich’s. The warm, calloused grip is, begrudgingly, calming.

“You can’t tell me this wouldn’t have won,” Erlich says, finally, giving Richard a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Oh my god, it’s the worst thing imaginable.”

“Right? I hacked the sound device from this horrible christmas card I found at this skeezy dollar store into some LED lights.”

“Why?” Richard says, giving Erlich a tired, sour look.

“Why not?”

Erlich laces his fingers together with Richard’s, and in return, Richard squeezes tight. He lets out a shaky breath that he’s been holding in too long, then lets his head rest against Erlich’s shoulder.

“Sorry. I guess we both fucked this night up, huh?” Richard concedes, voice soft and quiet, cracking gently around the words.

Erlich chuckles. "Yeah." He presses his cheek to the top of Richard's head. "To be fair, if anybody ruined this night, it was Peter Gregory. Who the hell wants a fancy Christmas party like this? Christmas parties are supposed to be fun, not stuffy black-tie affairs."  
  
"You love stuffy black-tie affairs," Richard says. "You're in your element."   
  
Erlich shudders. "It gives me war flashbacks. Ghosts of Shitty Christmases Past, as it were."   
  
"Seriously?" Richard glances over at him. " _This?_ "   
  
"Yeah!" Erlich says. "My parents treated Christmas like it was some kind of Smug Asshole Olympics with all their shitty WASP friends. They'd act like we were so happy, and so rich, and so loving to all their friends, but then ignore me from about October to January."   
  
Richard just stares at him, trying to comprehend whether Erlich’s bullshitting or not. "You were rich?"   
  
Erlich grins. "Hard to believe, right?" 

Richard lets out a soft laugh and rests his head back on Erlich’s shoulder. There really is a lot they still don’t know about each other, despite how intertwined their lives are. Erlich feels so familiar to him and yet … Now Richard kind of feels like an asshole for assuming so much.

“Sorry I overreacted,” Richard says gently, sighing. He knows it doesn’t fix anything.   
  
"Don't worry about it," Erlich says, cheerless. 

Richard should really just let it go, but now he’s stewing in how irredeemable this night feels and how ultimately, it falls on him more than it does Erlich. The only thing worse than Erlich making _him_ miserable, is him making _Erlich_ miserable.

  
"I mean... “ Richard starts, not sure where he’s going, “I guess it's not even like it's been _that_ bad for me. Christmas. It just always feels like something gets in the way of what should be a nice time. Like when your cousin breaks up with her husband at Christmas dinner, or you get food poisoning from your aunt's coleslaw, or your grandmother gets really drunk and throws the pie onto the floor out of spite for no one in particular."   
  
"Or when your horrible mother grounds you until February for spilling eggnog on a state senator."

Erlich always has to one-up him. Richard lets him have this one.  
  
"Jesus. Now I feel bad for complaining," Richard snorts.   
  
"I was _nine,_ " Erlich kisses the top of his head, breathing in deep. "But seriously … it's easy to feel like the holiday season is out to get you. I wish people would just calm the fuck down about it."  
  
"Right? It's supposed to be stupid and fun, but everybody has to have so many expectations! I don't get why we can't just enjoy ourselves and not take it so seriously."  
  
"I know! That's why I was so jazzed about this stupid party. Peter Gregory hosting an ugly sweater contest would have been so much fun."

Erlich sighs wistfully.  
  
"I'm sorry for ruining your sweater. It definitely would have won."   
  
"You think?"   
  
"Yeah. It’s hideous." 

Erlich flashes him a lopsided grin and leans in, gently sliding a hand under Richard’s chin, tilting it up to kiss him. Richard kisses back, but doesn’t linger, despite how much he doesn’t want the kiss to end. He’s too worked up now.

So he pushes Erlich away.   
  
"You know what? We should go back out there and have a good time. Who cares what a bunch of rich assholes think about us?" Richad’s riled up again.   
  
Erlich let’s out a soft bark of a laugh. "You can't be serious."   
  
"I am! Fuck them! Fuck Peter Gregory, fuck Monica, and fuck your parents!" Richard pauses then, realizing what he just said. "Shit--"   
  
"No, you're right," Erlich says, nodding intently, standing. "Fuck my parents. I'm gonna go spill some eggnog on Elon fucking Musk. Eat shit, Mom."   
  
"Yeah!” Richard, still incensed, agrees. Then: “Wait, please don't do that," Richard laughs, only half meaning it, and lets Erlich help him up.   
  
"Oh, I'm gonna."

“Erlich...”

Before Richard has time go back on everything, Erlich is making a beeline for the ballroom, Richard’s hand still grasped tight in his, dragging him along.

Richard supposes he wouldn’t really fight it even if he wanted to, but still, keeping up with Erlich’s stride proves challenging and he stumbles into him as they burst through the doorway. Richard scrambles to grab at Erlich’s sleeve, trying to keep himself upright, knocking himself into a tall silver display of chilled Champagne, which teeters, threatening to fall.

By some grace, it doesn’t.

Expectedly, everyone is staring at them. The room has gone still, hushed whispers flooding around them as the music fades into a lull. Richard tightens his grip. Erlich’s sleeve jingles.

Regret washes over Richard, threatening to drown him, drenching whatever flames were fueling his indignation just moments before.  

The music swells. Richard’s eyes, frantically searching for escape, fall onto the far balcony.

And there’s Peter Gregory, elbow resting on the railing, staring down at them. Their eyes meet, and something heavy in Richard’s stomach manages to sink down even further.

Peter Gregory raises a hand slowly, just barely reaching up in a motionless greeting. His expression is unreadable from where Richard’s standing, but he doesn’t expect it to be favorable.

It’s Erlich’s turn to grab at Richard’s sleeve now.

“I don’t … Nope, I can’t do this,” Erlich mutters, voice catching in his throat, staring up at Peter Gregory, waving back, but resolve shaken.

“Oh thank God,” Richard breathes out a sigh, half fear, half relief.

All the spite in the world couldn’t help Richard survive this, he’s sure of it.

Without anymore hesitation, Erlich’s bolting for the exit, Richard dragging along behind him again. Erlich manages to swipe a bottle of champagne on his way out, and that at least, Richard is grateful for.

 

* * *

 

It’s a nice night out, really. Chilly, but not _too_ cold, and the sweaters, ugly as they are, help to keep warm.

There’s a sprawling park across from the party venue, all lit up and decorated for the holidays, where they’ve settled in on an old bench that’s dusted with dead leaves. The warm glow of the lights above are just enough to keep the park from feeling lonely and ominous.

Richard stuffs the last of a take-out burrito into his mouth, and Erlich passes him the _Dom Perignon_ after taking another swig.

The faintest echo of music, filtering out from Peter Gregory’s party across the street, drifts over them, accompanying the crickets.

Richard nurses the bottle, lost in thought. Despite everything, this is actually kind of pleasant. Almost romantic.

“I guess tonight kinda turned out alright. Sort of,” Richard mumbles, handing the Champagne back to Erlich.

“Not really, but the _Rosé_ was a nice touch,” Erlich says, raising it, then downs another quarter of it to wash down the last of his nachos. “This vintage has gotta be worth a grand, at least.”

“The food was good,” Richard offers, a little in shock. The absurdity of cheap take-out paired with ridiculously expensive Champagne is not lost on him.

“Yeah,” Erlich nods, “I’ll take it. Guess it beats stuffy parties and deconstructed cuisine.”

“You love stupid deconstructed cuisine. There was even gold-leafed deserts. You’d kill for that sorta stuff.”

“Well, not on Christmas, I guess,” Erlich grumbles.

“It’s not _actually_ Christmas, remember?”

Erlich squints at him, but only hands him back the bottle. “Fair point.”

“So you really … I mean, parties like that is how you spent Christmas growing up?”

“Pretty much. Awful, huh? I don’t know. I like the fancy stuff, sometimes. The expensive stuff at least. I guess I always just wanted to have enough money to do stuff my own way. Expensive, yeah, but at least fun. That’s not _fun._ ”

“I guess I get it.” Richard nods. “Jesus, I really had no idea your parents were...”

“Loaded? Yeah. We’ll get there eventually. Then we’ll throw a fucking _party_.”

“Please don’t. I hate parties.”

“Who hates parties?”

“People who have been to one-too-many college parties and have recurring nightmares about them.”

“Pfft. How did you even survive college?”

“I didn’t. I dropped out, remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

The music quiets down then and the crickets are deafening.

A dingy grey sedan whooshes past them, cloudy yellow headlights illuminating them in the silent tension. The trees sway in the quiet dark, lights overhead casting moving shadows. Richard picks idly at the label on the bottle, and presses in close to Erlich.

The alcohol is catching up to Richard now, his limbs sluggish, eyes heavy. It’s been an exhausting night.

“I’m sorry I fucked up the invitations.”

Richard glances over, a little shocked that Erlich is apologizing. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s still one of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me, but you probably did me a favor. By now I’m pretty sure I’d be drunk and about two glasses of champagne away from puking up shrimp cocktail on Peter Gregory.”

Erlich snorts. “I guess everything works out the way it’s supposed to, huh?”

“Yeah,” Richard says, peeling bits of paper off the label. “I dunno, I think I prefer this. Just this. Us.”

“Me too.” Erlich gives him a goofy, lopsided grin that makes Richard’s insides turn all gooey and warm. “Hey. Love you.”

Richard, caught off guard, writhes under the attention, unable to keep from smiling stupidly. “Me too.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere nice for Christmas this year?” Erlich asks suddenly. “Away from everybody who can ruin it.”

“Or we can save money,” Richard says, chuckling.

“What? You don’t want to spend the day doing nothing but eating room service and soaking in a big tub and letting me fuck your brains out?” Erlich smirks, raising his eyebrows. “Now _that’s_ how you spend Christmas.”

Richard laughs and squirms, his ears going hot. “ _Maybe_.”

“That’s not a no,” Erlich hums, taking Richard’s chin in a large hand, closing the space between them and kissing him softly.

Richard melts, the last of the tension finally falling away. Erlich tastes like nachos and Dom Perignon, but Richard doesn’t care. It’s nice. For the first time since the beginning of the holiday season, Richard feels like everything is going to be okay.

That is, until his phone starts buzzing aggressively in his back pocket.

“Fucking--” Richard curses against Erlich’s mouth. “Goddamnit. What now?”

“Ignore it,” Erlich says, clamping a hand down on Richard’s knee, but Richard is already reaching for his phone.

When he looks down at the screen, the warmth Richard felt from before suddenly drains away, the burrito and the champagne coming to a rolling boil in his stomach. “Fuck. It’s Monica.”

Erlich stiffens. “Shit.”

“I’m answering it.” Richard takes a deep breath, then holds it up to his ear. “Heyyy--uh, hi. Hel--lo. Hello,” he stutters out.

Erlich squints at him, disappointed.

“Hey!” Monica says. She sounds surprisingly cheerful. “Where are you guys?”

“What is it?” Erlich hisses, but Richard waves him off. “How fucked are we?”

“We’re at the park,” Richard says to Monica, then covers the receiver with a hand. “She sounds happy? I think?”

Erlich frowns. “Shit. She’s probably happy to be rid of us, if that’s the case. Fucking investors.”

The sloshing alcohol and take-out combo threaten to come bubbling up out of Richard, but Monica just laughs. She sounds a little drunk. “Hey, I just wanted to call to let you know that Peter Gregory _loves_ your sweaters. Erlich’s especially. He said it was ‘delightful.’” She says the last bit with a Peter-Gregory-esque cadence.

“Wait, what? He did?” Richard says, slapping Erlich’s hand away when he reaches for the phone.

“Yeah! He wants to do an ugly sweater party next year!” Monica says, then says something muffled to someone at the party. “Shit, I gotta go. See you next week, Merry Christmas!”

Before Richard can say goodbye, the line goes dead. He lowers the phone and stares at it, dumbfounded.

Erlich lets out a long exhale and brings his fists down on his thighs. “Okay! It’s fine. We’ll get through this.”

“Huh?” Richard says, looking over at Erlich, confused. “What? No. Peter Gregory loved your sweater.”

Erlich blinks a few times, the defiant look on his face slowly spreading into a proud smile as he processes what Richard just said. “See? I told you this would win.”

Richard wants desperately to ignore how _smug_ Erlich is, though he can’t help but smile. “There wasn’t even a contest to win.”

“Exactly, that’s how great I am,” Erlich says, giving Richard a gentle nudge of his elbow. “Eh?”

“Whatever,” Richard chuckles softly, rolling his eyes. He leans into Erlich anyway, letting him wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him close.

They should probably get home soon, it’s getting late and Richard is _so_ exhausted … but for now this is nice.

Richard pushes his nose against Erlich’s scratchy neck, nuzzling, breathing him in, and Erlich squeezes him with a heavy arm, kissing the top of his head. Richard decides that staying like this for a while, under the strung up lights, in the empty darkness of the park beats being at some fancy party.

Besides, they still have a little Champagne left.

For once in his life, Richard finds himself looking forward to Christmas.


End file.
